The ones that insist upon nesting on my front porch annoy me. I’ll let them alone if they ignore me, but after a few aggressive moves on their part, I’ll act. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been stung over the years.

There’s that motif again of the birth/life made possible only through brokenness/death. There must be something to it, for season after season, it builds its nest in my heart, and just at the moment I believe I can’t bear another winter, the black sheath cracks, falls away, and reveals a new way to hope.

They eat and are eaten. Some of our ground dwellers battle tarantulas, and when victorious, drag them to their underground lairs where they lay their eggs in the still-living body of the spider. It’s hard to feel sympathy for the spider, but…

to be eaten means they serve a function at least, i should know that really, i just hate the things. if only people would give up sweet things they may not be such a bother.
i wouldn’t mind watching a spar off between an ant & a tarantuala. i watched a goshawk slaughter a pigeon & haul it up off the road, or try, a hire car scared it off.

Just this morning on my walk I saw a swarming of what I am assuming were wasps – although their coats were so shiny and blue. Maybe native to Australia. All the walkers were zigzagging around them. What power in such a little body. I really appreciate how you’ve found the gift of life in them.

I’m tempted to go back and find them and share a pick … but they were wasps … and it’s approaching 35 degrees celsius … and maybe when I take a photo they’ll turn out to be something much more benign and nowhere near as inspiration. Tee Hee.

“gift of living through death…”
we die a thousand times when sleep, but by sleep every human organ is always healing no matter how deep is the wound.
Yes human body is the culmination of every living being itself